


Doubts Don't Deter Detectives V

by amindamazed (hophophop)



Series: Doubts Don't Deter Detectives [6]
Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dreams, Gen, Not liking them, Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, POV Original Character, Pizza, Sleep, Surprises, but sometimes surprises are okay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-21
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-17 01:52:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 5,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11265495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hophophop/pseuds/amindamazed
Summary: “Why are you telling me this?”2017 Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts Challenge: 31 prompts, 31 days, more or less





	1. Line of Inquiry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I thought a leisurely breakfast might be nice._
> 
> Sherlock makes breakfast.
> 
> July Writing Prompts Challenge [test post: surprise](https://watsons-woes.dreamwidth.org/1630655.html)

Brick tea this morning, Holmes thinks, and takes the cake of Watson’s favorite pu’er from the cabinet. As ever, the act of inserting the tea needle to loosen the leaves brings to mind certain associations, some less welcome than others. Today it prompts a consideration of the ways that surgery is a highly structured and planned profession, at least in the specialties Watson selected. (Given the metaphorical mine fields surrounding this subject, he’s never inquired about her medical career choices, but even now he vividly recalls a dream years ago in which he observed her expertly handling multiple casualties at a field hospital near the front line of battle in a desert his unconscious mind didn’t bother to identify.) 

Of course this structure is a defense against the unpredictability of the vulnerabilities and frailties of human physiology; her skill and preparation were her weapons against the unexpected on the operating table, until they proved insufficient to the task. With hindsight, the logic behind the direction she turned afterwards falls into place. He can hardly imagine an occupation more tedious, dull, and repetitious than sober companion: personality quirks aside, the average addict falls well within established parameters of behavior. There's little need to expect the unexpected or face being blindsided. Boredom is guaranteed, the price for avoiding risk. It’s no wonder she was receptive to his proposal. And of course as a detective, she — they — vanquish mystery and find answers to the most unpleasant of unexpected questions, a project to which she applies herself with rather fierce dedication at times. 

Watson, one might then deduce, does not like surprises. 

Tea still steeping, he puts a selection of berries in a bowl and pulls the best knife for slicing the melon from the drying rack. How then to balance this aversion, long-held if he were to speculate, perhaps reaching back to childhood and learned experience with an unstable parent… (Recollection of another dream suddenly surfaces, in which he wandered long dark hallways and over-sized empty rooms unable to locate the person he sought. Little profit from following this train of thought in any case.) No matter the origin, Watson is simultaneously drawn to the bizarre and unusual and yet driven to be prepared for all eventualities, to the point of shaping her life to avoid those beyond her control, at work and at home. To whit: she has many acquaintances but few close friends, rarely engages in intimate physical contact given her preference for aligning the physical with the emotional, and has a demonstrated track record of vocational preferences that not only invite and reward long hours but in fact requires them more often than not. 

For all her periodic plaints about wanting "me time," when stress levels reach distress levels, she comforts herself (a wince of doubt; this terminology may be faulty) in work. She turns to her own skill and expertise, focusing on the things she can control rather than the chaos of external stimuli that refuse to conform to probabilistic models. He is of course familiar with the chaos of internal stimuli, but that's more of a positive feedback loop model, in which all too predictable responses compound over time. His jaw catches briefly with an uncomfortable click in his temporomandibular joint as he takes a bite of the extra melon slice that didn't fit on the plate. Unfortunately there's no proven way to deduce the mechanics of such a feedback loop in another person's brain without involving those inexact sciences (and even then "proof" is hardly the relevant term to apply). Well, he has of course established some methods of his own, but he's wary of applying them to Watson for reasons that aren't relevant at this juncture.

So. Watson does not like surprises. They present as threats to her control, as best as he can interpret. However, she is not wholly immune to stimuli of the Pavlovian variety, and he has had excellent results when food is involved. It’s been years since a tray of breakfast items alone is any surprise at all. He rarely even employs it as a buffer when he does wish to introduce the unexpected; this might be worth reconsidering at some point.

And that is an interesting observation: if there’s no clear purpose to this practice, why then does he continue to assemble these trays? He could stop immediately, although perhaps a tapering period would be advisable, so as not to provoke the unintentional surprise of _not_ waking her with breakfast. Yes, that would be the proper method to proceed. But what, then, is this weight in his gut at the prospect of concluding the experiment? His nose informs him that the steeping tea has reached Watson's preferred strength. This line of inquiry will have to wait, and he files it in the Pending Projects alcove of his attic for future study. Right now, Watson is expecting her breakfast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I'm rusty - I only did a few JWP entries last year, and posting this feels like jumping into water 20 degrees colder than I was ready for. wheee!
> 
> I first thought I'd try for a 221b, then considered a 442 with a B at either end, but I had some free time at work and the whole thing got away from me, though the first and last Bs remain. I'm using the JWP 24-hr turn-around as my excuse for not employing a more severe editor to whip this into shape. Hooray for JWP!


	2. Left a Scar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [JWP #1: Back to the Beginning](https://watsons-woes.dreamwidth.org/1632511.html)  
>  Watson injury (any severity), from a different POV than Holmes (meaning Mrs. Hudson, Scotland Yard, Baker Street Irregular, The Villain (whoever he/she may be), etc.
>     
>     
>     Message from 917-555-0152  
>     > 
>     Found Alfredo.  
>     > 
>     He's OK.  
>     > 
>     Can you talk?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set at the end of 3x24; warning for brief description of violence.

When the two men started yelling, Pin paid attention, in case more of them showed up or one of them started shooting. Light was better for reading by the window, but it wasn’t worth the risk of stray bullets. Actually only one of them was yelling, but he was unsteady on his feet and didn’t look like he’d have great aim. The other one suddenly ignored him, staring at his phone while the first one kept talking. All at once the one with the phone turned and punched the yeller to the ground, then kicked and stomped him viciously. It was over in 10 seconds, before Pin had time to shrink back, and the one turned away just as abruptly, staring at his phone again. The first man hadn’t moved since he went down. Then the quiet one tossed the phone, picked up something else by his feet, and walked off into the tunnel, stepping over the guy on the tracks like he was garbage on the street.

When a flock of sparrows landed to scrape in the gravel a while later, Pin figured no one was coming back and climbed over the window sill carefully. Most of the glass was long gone, and they’re more worried about landing softly than meeting a sharp edge. Pin had lots of practice not being noticed, and the birds merely sidled away a bit as they approached. Yes — the phone’s screen was dark but not shattered, and it turned right on, battery at 75%. The message he got was still there: _Found Alfredo. He’s OK. Can you talk?_ They took a quick glance toward the tunnel, but they couldn’t see anyone there. The guy on the tracks might be dead, and Pin wasn’t going to get any closer to find out. They hesitated, phone in their fist, then grimaced and hit the reply button. Somebody still cared, shouldn’t let that go to waste. _phone found on tracks behind_ and entered a street address near the tunnel.

Pin had been back in the abandoned utility building about 45-minutes when they heard more shouting and the crunch of running footsteps. It was stupid to hang around after sending the message, but they wanted to know what would happen. They knew the woman saw the body when her tone became frantic, but they still couldn’t make out what she was saying. Sure lot? Pin saw the woman stumble and fall, knees hitting the gravel hard, and she cut off a cry. Pin winced, suddenly flashing back to being ten years old and tripping over the sidewalk pushed up by a tree. They still have a scar. 

The woman pushed herself up right away, and there was a tear in her pants at the knee, bright blood shining. She scrambled the rest of the way, unsteady and using her hands which also flashed wet red scrapes at the heel. When she reached the body she jerked upright in shock and started calling again, looking swiftly back and forth along the tracks. Pin could tell she wanted to keep searching once she realized the body was somebody else; it was like her feet were frozen to the ground while the rest of her was pulled to the tunnel. How did she know the one she texted went that way? She yelled one more time and dropped again to her knees by the man on the ground, cutting off another shout of pain again like she’d forgotten she’d scraped them before. 

Her hands hovered over and around the man, touching his face and pressing fingers against his neck. She seemed to be speaking to him, then pulled out a phone and made a call, all the time looking around, back and forth, always turning back to the tunnel. The hand with the phone dropped to her side, still gripping it; the other remained at the man’s pulse. Her hair was a wreck, half of it pulled loose from her pony tail, long black strands stuck to the side of her face. Pin could see her mouth still moving, but the sound didn’t carry. She stared into the dark.


	3. Two Watsons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [JWP #2 - Hot time in the old town tonight: summer in the city](https://watsons-woes.dreamwidth.org/1635668.html)
> 
> _Our relationship....doesn't function properly if there are two Holmeses and no Watsons._
> 
> Joan decides it's two Watsons time.

Watson came down the stairs, water-bottle-laden tote bag in one hand and a wide-brimed sun hat in the other. He didn’t look up, but she stood well within his peripheral vision. “Go get your boater or whatever it’s called.” She waved her hat at him to indicate what she meant. “If we leave now, we can get a good spot.”

Sherlock lay on the parlour floor surrounded by the disembodied parts of his favorite scanner and kept his eyes focused on his tweezers as he tugged gently on a wire. They’d only just concluded three weeks on an ultimately rewarding case that nonetheless had required long hours of both intense focus and tedious drudgery. They’d each spent the day unwinding: Watson submersed first in the bathtub and then in many hours of slumber; himself with this project. “I’m sorry, Watson, but I never agreed—“ 

Her foot came down in an empty spot on the floor by his left elbow; a piece of the black plastic casing caught under her heel.

“It’s a big deal for Rani! Even though the public school cricket league is all coed, girls rarely end up on the teams. This is the last game of the season, her last one before graduating, and you told her you’d go.”

He scowled, sat back, and tugged the casing from under her foot. “It’s not a game, it’s a match,” he muttered. Watson’s former colleague’s daughter had produced commendable research on _Apis mellifera watsonia_ for her Honors Biology project. He supposed it wasn’t her fault that she had non-scientific talents as well, or that the educational system she was trapped in all but enforced their development. Still, he had appearances to maintain, and drew himself up to look down his nose at his partner. Watson stared coolly back. After a full ten seconds, one eyebrow gracefully arched. He let his shoulders drop to indicate defeat. Well, acquiescence, really. When the balance had been tilted too long in one direction, it didn’t hurt to over-balance in the other direction — briefly — before restoring equilibrium. He might have suggested something along these lines himself. Eventually. 

Her face lit up, actually pleased and apparently not at all smug over her victory in this skirmish, and he shook his head ruefully. Outplayed once again. 

“Let’s go, ‘Watson’,” she said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In NYC, the Public School Athletics League includes varsity [Coed Cricket](http://www.psal.org/sports/sport.aspx?spCode=056&flag=All).
> 
>  _Apis mellifera watsonia_ comes courtesy of (by which I mean I just borrowed it without asking) language-escapes and her transcendent “[La Chanson des Vieux Amants](http://archiveofourown.org/works/916456)” as a correction for the obviously inaccurate Euglassia Watsonia species name.


	4. after sleep, bath, and a glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [JWP #3: Overheard](https://watsons-woes.dreamwidth.org/1640058.html)
> 
> " _You have great hearing. I_ understand."

Looking back, Joan would have been seriously creeped out if she’d realized just how good Sherlock’s hearing was, when she first moved to the Brownstone. At the time, she’d been thrilled with the size of the place — also somewhat concerned about how many drugs he could hide there (and _completely_ unprepared for the weapons stash) — Still, she essentially had an entire floor of the place to herself. Not that she’d be spending much time alone, of course. And he’d made it very clear right away that he’d be challenging every single boundary she drew. But when it was time to withdraw, for his sake or her own, she imagined would have more delicious privacy than with any of her previous clients. 

God, how naive she was.

She didn’t know if it was courtesy or strategy that kept him from revealing this skill right away. Or maybe it was just self-preservation. They’d had an argument once during her training, when she pushed back to counter he couldn’t claim a physiological quirk as a skill. His hands slapped against the table hard enough to make both of them wince; now she understood the pain would have been as much the assault to his ear drums as much as his palms. At the time, though, she only recognized that he immediately reacted to her flinch by leaning back and breathing forcefully through his nose. His jaw remained clenched but his voice low, and he rose to his feet with careful deliberation. “If there’s one lesson you should have learned by now, Watson, it’s that there’s a vast chasm to be crossed between sensory input and observational acumen. I have worked my whole life to cross it. I can only hope that some day you will join me on the far rim.” He gave her privacy then, and she sat at the red table chagrined by needing the reminder, because of course she knew that was what she’d been learning all along, but more surprised by his vehemence. She did some deductions of her own about that after the fact.

To be honest, it did come to bother her a little. Well, more than a little. She couldn’t tell him it was one reason she wanted her own place because she didn’t want to think about the fact that her roommate knew from two rooms or two stories away when she rolled over in her sleep or which tea tin she opened or any number of more intimate actions she became too self-conscious to do when she knew he was home. Which actions he’d then know she _wasn’t_ doing, as well. Now she had a better understanding of what it was like for him and the methods he practiced to manage the barrage of data, as he put it. And she trusted him, mostly, not to invade her privacy without reason. Good reason, reasonable reason. But back then, times when she wasn’t comfortable in her own skin, just the possibility of it became unbearable. She’d gone to a new therapist in the second month she was on her own, and after explaining what it was like to be constantly observed and dissected, the woman had noted with interest the parallel between Sherlock’s attempts to block the flow of information with drugs and what Joan just described as an overwhelming need to escape the panopticon. Joan hadn’t made a second appointment.

These days, though, while it was still annoying at times, not to mention embarrassing, it was long past being her “new normal.” It just was. Sherlock did make an effort to disregard her usual Brownstone sounds, for his sake as much as hers, she believed. She imagined it like one of his police scanners, with frequencies he could tune in or tune out. And really, when he heard her frustrated half-swear after stepping out of the shower and knocked once before opening the door a crack to pass the towel she’d forgot to bring from the laundry basket, or took a pint of chicken stock from the freezer to thaw on the kitchen counter after her third sneeze in two hours, or god all the breakfast trays presented just after she started to wake, must be hundreds of them now… Well. It was a great gift, to be heard. Also frustrating as hell, especially when things got lost in translation. Especially when it turned out his translation was more accurate than her own. She had to remind herself she was a work in progress, even after all this time. As was he. They’d never actually reach that rim, and they didn’t always travel together. But she knew he would always be listening for her footsteps, even when she couldn’t hear his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from [“Theories of the Soul” by Karen An-hwei Lee](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/54551/theories-of-the-soul)


	5. Face Value

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [JWP #4: To the Makeup Table! Focus on Holmes and/or Watson in disguise](https://watsons-woes.dreamwidth.org/1643351.html)
> 
> _“[The glasses are] just helping me get into character.”_
> 
> a 221B

Joan had worked so hard her whole life to be seen for who she was that the art of disguise took a long time for her to appreciate. Deftly laid artifice that got a suspect to confess was something else. She didn't hide behind that; she wielded it while facing her opponent with her hands on the table. (Even if getting them to that table involved activities rather more underhanded than the law might applaud.) Persuasion and rhetoric got her where she wanted to go, and the benefit of a partner was not having to do everything by yourself.

She was by turns amused, intrigued, and occasionally disturbed by Sherlock's many virtual personas and impressed by the array of accents he had at his disposal. During her training he would argue she should take advantage of the stereotypes others draped over her everywhere she went, to hide in plain sight as her quarry took her for granted and underestimated her reach and her insight. He'd stopped lecturing her about it, finally; she wasn't sure who she had to thank for that. Ms Hudson, possibly. Or someone at a meeting? No matter. Sherlock enjoyed performance and eventually accepted that she had her reasons for focusing on other means to reach their ends. There was always more than enough work for them both.


	6. Done

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [JWP #6: Note to self](https://watsons-woes.dreamwidth.org/1647326.html)
> 
> _“I’m gonna go out on a limb and say you forgot.”_

“That’s how I knew you were depressed,” Emily said, with a slightly dramatic pause as she sipped her iced tea. “When you stopped carrying your day planner everywhere. All the other type-As had switched to Palm Pilots or whatever but you were always lugging that thick black binder around. It was just as hard to find a time to meet, but at least I could watch you write it down in your sacred book.” Another pause, and Emily cleared her throat. “And then you stopped.”

Joan didn’t like to remember those days, largely because there wasn’t anything to remember: with a slip of the scalpel, the life she’d had then ran through her fingers along with Gerald Castoro’s. She grimaced at the comparison: she was still here wasn’t she. Like every time something reminded her she felt a faint jolt of panic that she’d forgotten his birthday, but she’d stopped going to his grave when Joey finally graduated from college. Not the engineering program his father had been so proud of, but she wasn’t the only one who ended up on a different path, after. The diploma for his degree in restaurant management was on the wall of the bar next to the photo of his father. Forgiveness wasn’t exactly the right word for it, but she’d found a kind of balance with herself between then and now. One that didn’t involve rehashing it all again. She gave Emily a little shrug and a closed-mouth half-smile. _Continue on your own or change the subject, Em._

Emily watched her for another beat and then tilted her head with a wry smile. “You know I used to use your calendar to keep track of what I had to do in college,” she said.

“What?” Joan relaxed into the back of her chair, now that the Em had dropped her investigation. They had more in common now as journalist and detective than she would have guessed back when she carried that planner.

“Freshman year we had almost all the same classes, and you were always so organized, had everything written in triplicate: weekly schedule, wall calendar, post-it notes everywhere. No reason for me to bother when you had it all done for me.”

“I seem to remember you dropped half those classes…”

“How was I supposed to know I had to do more than check your to-do list to keep up?”


	7. chapter and verse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [JWP #6: Poetic License.](https://watsons-woes.dreamwidth.org/1650975.html) A character writes poetry (doesn't have to be good poetry).
> 
> _“Hundreds of books in the house, how many volumes of poetry?”_
> 
> 221B, set when Joan was still learning to be a detective; let's say in the summer between s1 and s2.

“You’re assigning me poetry. Are crime poems even a thing?” Watson frowned, considering. “Or do you mean works written by criminals? To understand them?”

“No, one can only hope, no, and absolutely not.”

“So…what, then?”

“You are not to be reading poetry — your initial skepticism is justified; that’s a waste of time — but writing it. That’s where its true value lies. Metrical verse, specifically.”

Watson narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously and then suddenly nodded in recognition, and he continued. “Ah, yes, so you see the value in being able to articulate your deductions with precision and vivid description as part of the analytical—“

“There once was a cranky detective”

Holmes sighed.

‘Who claimed his was the only perspective.” Watson started grinning. “He shared all he knew, would talk himself blue…”

He looked at his watch; past midnight, so not all that surprising that she’d slipped from studious to punchy.

“To share all his methods effective.” She adjusted her posture, no longer slouching in the chair, apparently stimulated by that little performance. He cleared his throat in preparation for disapproval and then realized she hadn’t actually been mocking him after all. Or at least not with the content of her composition. He cleared his throat again.

“Quite. Although I would direct you to a Spencerian stanza for your next bid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus content generated in the drafting: two more verses that were probably recited during the course of this lesson and three that were never shared.
> 
> there once was a softy at heart  
> who believed that detection was art  
> but with baked good on trays  
> he revealed secret ways  
> to convince wary folk from the start
> 
> *
> 
> I think that I shall never see  
> some one as sleep deprived as me
> 
> *
> 
> Language, Watson,  
> is a precision instrument. With care  
> the word may harm or heal or reveal;  
> with skill, it can change a thought or stop a heart.  
> Delicate or blunt; swift or round-about,  
> it’s the tool  
> most readily at our disposal.
> 
> *
> 
> blue light in silence  
> the restless dead tell stories  
> few can comprehend
> 
> *
> 
> yes  
> I’ll stay  
> mysteries  
> finding answers  
> share my room with bees  
> always some new strangeness  
> you said ‘partner’ and I said —  
> I said I love this work with you


	8. Loop Hole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [JWP #7: Witching Hour. Your prompt for today is: midnight summons](https://watsons-woes.dreamwidth.org/1654214.html)
> 
> _“The only thing I care about right now is sleeping.”_
> 
> They had an agreement.

“Watson!”

Joan grumbled into her pillow.

“Watson!”

She tightened her grip on the covers and pulled her arm to her chest when she felt the mattress shift with someone else’s weight but didn’t respond.

“Watson, I know you’re awake.”

Joan didn’t move. “We had an agreement,” she muttered, hoping the warning would be sufficient and knowing it wouldn’t be.

“Yes, but—“

“If I’m already in bed, no pestering me after midnight, not any more.”

“Not unless there’s a case!” The mattress transferred even more exuberance than the delight in the statement.

“Not unless…” She flipped over to glare sternly at the interloper. “You finished your last ‘case’ before dinner.”

“Not that case.” The disdain for the one was so overplayed that Joan had to bite back the laugh, made more difficult by the evident delight about whatever it was that had to be shared right now. “It’s a new one. Completely unexpected!” Each syllable was enunciated distinctly for additional emphasis, a clear echo of the original speaker’s glee. Joan closed her eyes in capitulation. She’d never admit to this weakness, but she was powerless against the excitement that so obviously wanted to be shared. Of course, Sherlock already knew that. She sighed dramatically, and the mattress bounced hard before feet hit the floor and clattered down the stairs with the shout, “She’s up!”

Joan stretched out her legs and pulled the covers up over head, a prelude to folding them back. Sedate footsteps made their way down from the third floor and paused outside her door. She turned her head to speak, still hidden under the linens. “We had an agreement.”

“There was a loop hole. Convincingly argued, I might add.” She smiled under the covers, knowing the expression that would accompany the tone in his voice without having to look. “Science would be a formidable litigator,” he added, then hummed thoughtfully. “We should attempt to divert any such interest to more useful pursuits.”

She indulged herself with an eye roll and then flipped the covers back and sat up all at once, knowing her bed head would provide a suitably dramatic flourish. The things she did, now. “All right. I’ll be down in a minute.” She shifted to drop her feet to the floor and inch them into her slippers. “It better be good.” She glanced back at him over her shoulder, for emphasis.

“Your tea will be ready when you are,” he said with a nod, and went downstairs to wait with their daughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set in the [For Science](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5484440) universe created with [beanarie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/beanarie/pseuds/beanarie), in which Joan and Sherlock have a daughter named Science. She's about 11 in this piece.


	9. Paths Not Taken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [JWP #8: Everyone Loves Sharing Their Expertise.](https://watsons-woes.dreamwidth.org/1656726.html) All of us have something we've learned about or practiced a great deal. Whether it's knitting, or horseback-riding, or a particular performing group, use one of your own hobbies or interests as the inspiration for today's work. And don't forget to tell us what it is in the notes!
> 
> _“I'm trying to change, too.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well this started out as just a silly conversation about the brownstone layout, but then word broke this afternoon that Nelsan Ellis, who played Shinwell Johnson in Elementary season 5, died today. He did a great job with what he was given, which unfortunately was not all it could have been, IMLTHO. RIP
> 
> I’d love to see the s5 fix-it fic that truly adapted ACD Shinwell to Elementary, as the show did with Kitty Winter in s3, instead of just using the name and nothing else from the character. In that fix-it, he and Kitty would know each other, and Shinwell’s story would not have ended the way it did on the show. There's a glimpse of that might-have-been here, but I certainly couldn't do it justice in a few hours for JWP.

“Hey. Where’s your bed?”

Sherlock eyed her appraisingly. “You’re not propositioning me. You’re sitting on the couch in my room that you know I employ for sleep and other bed-related activities. You’ve witnessed those, on numerous occasions.”

“That’s why I’m asking — the first day, the day you skipped out early from Hemdale, there was a bed in the library.”

“Ah.”

“I thought maybe it was the same bed in the back room downstairs, where Rhys stayed after I kicked him out of my room, but there wasn’t any indication it’s ever been dragged up or down the stairs. And then I don’t know if it was the same one or what, but you also set up a bed in here, back… For ‘Irene’,” and she waved her hands with dismissive air quotes around the name. “It also just disappeared.”

“What brought this on?”

“Oh,” and she pushed thoughts of torching the Moriarty-tainted linens out of her mind, “Just a dream I had. The house was all mixed up, kitchen on the main floor, and you had a bedroom upstairs somewhere with a regular bed. And people kept getting lost in here. Not us; for some reason there were other people in the house. I don’t know why. There might have been telescoping stairwells, like in the Harry Potter movies—“ He made a dismissive face. “Never mind. The point is, it reminded me you had a bed once, a regular boring bed. And I wondered where it went.”

Marcus texted then, and they went off on a case, and she never got her answer.

The next week she dreamed about the bed again; this time it was set up in a guest room. They actually had a real guest room, the room next to the media room on the third floor, with a sofabed that was draped with a sheet because it was so rarely used. But in the dream that plain double bed from her first day was there instead, and Shinwell lay stretched out on his back in the middle of it, resting on the covers, his hands clasped behind his head, elbows akimbo.

“I’ve never been in here before,” he said, eyes exploring the ceiling, which in the dream featured an elaborate baroque painting with angels and flowing banners and naked cherubs.

“We don’t use it much,” she explained, and he shook his head with a chuckle, and lifted his chin up a bit.

“It’s heaven,” he said, and she woke up.

The last time she dreamed about the bed, it was back in the library, and Shinwell and Kitty were sitting on it. Between them was a large ornate tray with an elaborate tea service arranged on it, although neither of them had a cup in hand. Instead they were laughing and making fun of them, her and Sherlock. They obviously knew each other somehow, maybe worked together? But in the dream they mostly just commiserated over the indignities and frustrations of being taught by Holmes and Watson. Sherlock was deeply offended, or pretending to be, and Joan was torn between wanting to defend herself, defend him, and join in. Kitty and Shinwell were really enjoying themselves in a way Joan had never witnessed in waking life, from either of them. 

That’s what lingered after she woke, that familiar comfort of two people whole-heartedly embracing their shared perspective, made bittersweet by its loss.

Was there any way that outcome could have come to pass? Anything she could have done? Introduced them when Kitty was in town? But no, at that point Shinwell had already warned her off in no uncertain terms. She wouldn’t have wanted to bring Kitty in, put her still fragile, new-found happiness at risk, and Shinwell’s focus was firmly set on the path of vengeance he’d chosen. As Kitty’s had been, once. And maybe that was why, although it had never occurred to her at the time, when there was even the remotest possibility of making it happen, she could imagine it now, the two of them becoming friends, sharing their hard-earned world-weariness, their unexpected forays into parenthood, their so-far unique experience as students of Holmes and Watson. Their choices not to become detectives after all. They would have learned from each other things neither she nor Sherlock could ever have taught them. And she wondered now what she could have — should have — learned from them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The expertise I chose to highlight before I learned about Ellis is my silly knowledge of the Brownstone set used on Elementary, which many fans find hard to visualize. I maintain a [blog post with descriptions, discussion, and links.](https://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/45498415430)
> 
> Unfortunately, this is not the first time JWP coincided with the death of an actor from Elementary. In 2015, I wrote a piece in honor of Roger Rees and the character Alistair Moore, [The Poorer for It](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4034770/chapters/9798591).


	10. Vanishing Act

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [JWP #9: I Never Get Your Limits.](https://watsons-woes.dreamwidth.org/1659930.html) A character's hidden talent saves the day. The talent, and the character, is up to you, as well as what constitutes 'saves the day'.
> 
> _"I'm here to see Sherlock Holmes."_
> 
> Lin has a certain effect on Sherlock.

The front door buzzed, and Joan jumped up. “Finally! Do you have a five for the tip?” Sherlock held out a bill as she passed the couch, not looking up from the video he was watching at double speed on his laptop. When she returned, she was followed by Lin, who carried a pizza box.

“Yes, I gave him a tip,” Lin said, and dropped the box on the red table. “And yes, I got your message, but not until I was following the pizza guy up the stairs here. Why can’t I just have a couple of slices here with you, and you can fill me in on the case you almost stood me up for.” She flipped the box open and made a face. “Plain cheese? Really?”

“Our case is a confidential matter between us and our client,” Sherlock intoned, continuing to stare at the video.

“Fine,” Lin said to him and then turned to stage-whisper at Joan, “So what is it this time? Murder, murder, or murder?” She looked around at the materials pinned up on the walls with exaggerated interest, glancing back at Joan and she walked towards Sherlock, who stood up abruptly, cradling the open laptop in one arm.

“I’ll just take this down to the office, shall I? Watson, let me know when you’re free to resume,” he said with a stiff nod of acknowledgment to Lin, and left the room. The door to the basement slammed shut a minute later. Lin burst out laughing, and Joan collapsed into a chair across from the pizza box and dropped her head on the table.

“Thank god. He’s been playing that video non-stop for three hours at all different speeds and volumes. I’m never gonna get that jingle out of my head.”

Lin shook her head. “That’s my fastest time yet.” She looked down at herself. “I’m still wearing my coat.”

“Well take it off and have a seat. What time is it? We should check to see how long the effect lasts.” Joan pulled slice of pizza from the box and took a bite with a satisfied hum. “Oh that’s good.

Lin got her own slice and blew on the cheese first. “Wonder what I’d have to do to get him to leave the building…”

“Please let’s not find out — I needed a little break, but an escalating skirmish between the two of you would not end well. For me.” Lin held her speculative look for another beat and then shrugged. 

“It’s your funeral.”

“As long as he doesn’t play that jingle at it,” Joan sighed and reached for a second slice, which she brandished in Lin’s direction. “Anyway, what’s wrong with cheese pizza?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [fill for same prompt, 3 July 2014](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1813216/chapters/4081365) (which was also a fill for the JoanBellFest that week)


End file.
